by David Wise
The laboring horses left far behind, I sped on toward a vast tower of smoke pushing itself against the clouds.
A fire indeed, and a bad one.
Acres of nearly ripe wheat had already gone up, and a broad arrowhead of flame marched relentlessly east, driven by the wind. It might burn itself out, but the last month had been unseasonably dry, so that seemed an unlikely chance. Vallaki itself could be spared for being on the other side of the river, but not so for the miles of farmland in between.
When the smoke became too thick to see, I wheeled back, swooped down to the road, and resumed a man's form again. One breath of the choking, ash-filled air blowing from the inferno convinced me not to try another. My eyes stung and streamed freely as I considered what best to do.
To magically control the fire was my first thought, but instinct told me my influence would be insufficient for the task. My second thought was for the weather. I glanced up. The clouds looked promising; at least I had something to work with. Checking through my pockets, I found a small pouch of incense. It hardly seemed enough, but I had plenty of fire to light it, there were some sticks lying about, and I knew the words of power to. . my heart sank. I had everything necessary for the magic but water.
In order to create rain, one must have water, but if one has water, then the rain is hardly likely to be necessary. Of course. It made perfect sense. To whatever fool had designed the spell.
I put the incense away in disgust, then retreated as the stifling wind carried a phalanx of sparks toward me. It was pure reflex. On my left hand was a ring capable of providing me with a certain amount of protection against fire. Its pale stone cast a cool blue radiance about me even now. Well, I couldn't keep retreating all the way back to the Luna. If I could trust that there were farms ahead, then I'd surely find a well or stock pond to complete the requirements of my spell. I had only to go forward.
Into the fire.
Clenching my left hand into a fist, I grimaced at the ring. Yes, its magic would stave off the harsher effects of the blaze; I well knew that in my mind, but putting aside so primal a fear is much easier said than done.
Then run fast, Strahd. Run very, very fast.
It might have helped not to look, but even I had not that much control. With walls of flame booming on each side, horrific heat, and smoke dense enough to cut into bricks, I sprinted down the exact center of the dirt road, fervently wishing the damned thing were wider. I could have moved more quickly in the form of a bat or a wolf, but wasn't sure if the magic of the ring would function as well, if at all, under such a change. This was not the time for experimentation.
I pulled my cape high in a feeble effort to protect my head from the worst of it and raced on. The racking heat beat hard on me, worse than any forge, worse than any midsummer sun. I would melt from it or flare up like an oil-soaked torch, twisting and screaming as. .
Stop whining and run.
It bellowed like a living thing. It was a living thing, consuming all life in its path and leaving death in its wake. Raging and roaring, the wind of its voice threatened to pound me into the ground for daring to challenge its power over the land.
Through. I'd gotten through.
The burning wall was behind me. But not the heat. That rose up from the roasted earth, curling about my body as if to yet sear me. The ring helped, but I'd pushed its limits. My hands and face were red and stinging, but not too badly. They could be ignored; I kept moving.
I'd known that the vanguard of the blaze would be my greatest danger, but once past its barrier there would be a relative respite since the grass and wheat would have been quickly exhausted as fuel. Had this been a heavily forested tract, with tall trees capable of burning for hours, I'd have never attempted it.
Striding forward into a charred and reeking world, I viewed a sorry landscape, utterly black except for bright spots where it still burned or an unexpected patch of green that had somehow escaped. Ahead, partially concealed before by the smoke, was a farming village — or rather its corpse.
It hadn't been much before the fire, and was less than nothing now, just a few wretched hovels crowded together on each side of the road. The thatch roofs were gone, but the wooden frames and beams were still aflame. My attention, however, was focused on something far more riveting. Scattered in the ruins and along the road were the bodies of the peasants who had lived here. Young and old, some so burned I couldn't tell man from woman, but others nearly untouched. These latter told me that the fire might not have had a natural origin. For without exception they'd been cut down by sword or by arrow.
Slaughtered. Murdered.
The smell of their blood hung thick in the hot air. My drowsing hunger, ever a light sleeper, came fretfully awake.
But I had no time to attend it. Every minute's delay meant the fire spread a few more yards. Multiply that by its breadth. .
I dashed to a waist-high ring of mortared stones that marked the remains of the village well. Its low roof was burned away; the four poles that had supported it were smoking stumps that had to be kicked down so I could get to the opening.
Bucket and rope were missing, but I'd expected as much. I sat on the edge of the stones and swung my legs around, easing myself into the well. Its rock sides were hot to touch, but not uncomfortably so, growing cooler as I descended; my hands had no difficulty maintaining purchase. Down I went, until my boots splashed into the debris-clogged water. I went lower in order to thoroughly soak the bottom of my cape, but when I began climbing back up, something tugged at it, pulling strongly.
Thinking that the edge had simply caught on something, I turned to shake it loose and nearly lost my hold on the wall from the surprise. Clinging to the hem were two small fists belonging to a thin child not more than ten years old.
Dumbfounded for all of two seconds, without further thought, I reached down and grabbed one stick of a wrist and hauled upward. The waif instantly wrapped arms and legs around my body in a death-grip. The extra weight was negligible; I climbed back to the top quick as a spider.
Once out of the well, I took a look at my partially drowned rat. It was a girl, if one might draw conclusions about the dripping rags that served as a dress. Her bone-white face was puffed from tears and blank with shock, and it took no little effort to peel her from my waist and set her on the ground. She took one terrified look at the village, another at the body of a woman slumped near the well, then fastened herself around my legs and started wailing.
Grief has its place and purpose, but hers was a decided impediment to my urgent business. I pushed her an arm's length away, stared hard into her eyes, and instructed her to be quiet and go to sleep. Her weeping hiccupped to a stop, and I lay her limp body onto a bare patch of earth for the time being.
That distraction dealt with, I drew the incense from my pocket, found a brand of wood, and commenced the work of casting the spell I'd planned.
This was no light undertaking; I wasn't even sure of success, but after several minutes'work, the first tremors of power began running through me like the hot blood of battle fever. Squeezing a quantity of water from my cloak was the final step. I shouted the last words completing the spell at the sky and clapped my hands overhead. Raw power leapt from them, shooting up until its dark purple aura was lost against the clouds.
Nothing visible happened for a time, then I detected a shifting in the gray billows above, like a great animal rousing itself. They roiled and writhed in harrowing silence, then a kind of pale mist suddenly obscured their details.
Rain struck my upturned face.
It was better than I'd hoped. Such magic is difficult to manipulate; sometimes the results of alteration are as impossible to predict as natural weather. But this time I'd brought about a steady soaking downpour that hissed and steamed among the flames, gradually smothering them. I was well satisfied.
Free now to turn my attention to the child, I spent some moments waking her and more still gently opening her mind up to questioning. Because she was so
young, and thus had little understanding of adult things, it was a tax on my patience to correctly interpret her answers into something comprehensible.
As far as I could judge, hers had been an unremarkable village, like hundreds of others dotting the valleys of Barovia. All had been at peace until the arrival of perhaps a dozen or so strangers who blithely announced they were taking the place over. When the elderly farmer who acted as burgomaster dared to question this, they cut his head off. After a few days of plunder and play, the new landlords grew bored and began the butchery, ultimately setting fire to everything. The girl had only survived because her desperate mother had dropped her into the uncertain safety of the well at the last moment.
I glanced at the woman's body. There was a fearful gashing on her back and shoulders. Sword wounds.
By the time I'd gotten this much from the girl, my conveyance was approaching in the distance. The downpour had apparently extended at least to the edge of the fire and likely beyond, else the horses would never have kept coming. I welcomed it, stopping and turning them until they faced east toward Vallaki. Since the back was crammed with boxes — including a special one large enough for a man to lie in — I put the girl up front on the driver's bench. She was alert to the point of being aware of her surroundings, but unable to offer much reaction. Crouching miserably in the rain, holding hard to the seat, she stared at me with neither expectation nor fear.
That counted for something. I firmly ignored the temptation of her blood while drawing my cloak around her slight body. Its heavy wool was wet, but would keep her warm enough until she reached Vallaki. I had more work ahead of me, anyway, and wished to rid myself of its encumbrance.
"The coach will stop at an inn," I said to her. "Tell the people there that Lord Vasili commands they care for you and the horses until his return. Understand?"
She nodded. Having imparted the instructions with a slight mental nudge, I could trust that she would readily pass the message on in a clear manner. She would be well fostered.
As the horses and wagon lurched over the now muddy road with their new cargo, I turned to the west, arms once more spread to ride the wind, and began to search beyond the burned area surrounding the village. Six hours later, after backtracking a sodden and nearly obscured trail originating in a wheat field, I discovered them camped high up in the foothills of Mount Baratok, to the north. Bandits they were, by the look of them, though it would not have mattered to me if they'd been nobles or slaves.
They'd sheltered in one of the caves piercing the limestone there and, from the piles of refuse thrown about, had evidently been in occupancy for quite a period prior to their invasion of the village. My small body hanging easily from the slender branch of a nearby tree, I settled in to listen to the men on guard.
Their talk was instructive, giving me to understand they'd not only murdered and done the arson, but from their high perch commanding a fine view of the valley, had taken rare delight at the fiery show. How disappointing that the rain had put an end to it; some were still grumbling over the ill luck hours afterward.
They were predators, but careless ones. A predator myself, I well knew the joy of the hunt, but also the responsibility, and to wantonly kill all your prey means your own death as well.
Particularly so in their case. Barovia was mine, the land, the peoples, mine to do with as I pleased. I would tolerate no interlopers despoiling my property.
Strahd von Zarovich looks after his own.
Abandoning the tree, I flew away, out of their limited sight, and became a man again, eyes and ears — and other senses — alert to all that lay around me. I became aware of a pack of wolves living not a quarter mile distant and put forth a silent call for them to come. In a remarkably short time I was surrounded by a number of their great, shaggy bodies. Grinning and panting, they bumped and fell against me to express their affection, nipping each other in their excitement and making soft yips and growls of greeting. I fairly basked in it, but not for long. At a soft word of command, they quietly followed me, threading through the trees like ghosts.
We stopped well outside the nimbus of light from the bandits'campfire. While the wolves remained hidden and waited, I slipped forward and made a slight noise to attract the attention of one of the men. They'd been in Barovia long enough to be cautious; instead of one coming to investigate, I had three to deal with. No matter.
Swords drawn and keeping within sight of each other, they crept forward into the trees, muttering cautions to be careful, treading on dry leaves, and otherwise announcing their intrusive presence to anyone or anything with ears to hear. I stood in the deep shadow of an elderly oak until the man I'd chosen came even with it, then reached out and plucked him from his feet without a sound. Pinning his arms with one hand and with the other clamped firmly over his face, I swiftly retreated with my prize. He kicked and flailed, ultimately vocalizing a strangled noise, but this was well muffled and brief for lack of air. My palm both covered his mouth and pinched his nose. His friends heard nothing.
How was I well rewarded for holding my hunger in check against the girl. Her young blood would have hardly provided for me so well as this feasting. Ecstatic, I ripped into his throat with my corner teeth, releasing the life-giving fountain of his blood. Thus did I feed, swallow after swallow, like a drunkard draining a cask of ale in one draught. When finished, I let the man's limp and empty body fall at my feet, then stepped over him to pursue his friends.
They'd grown both bold and fearful. Having determined he was not where he should have been, they called his name, hesitantly at first, in whispers, then more loudly as their alarm and annoyance increased. Again, I waited until another came close enough and dealt with him in the same manner as his fellow, holding him easily despite his best efforts to escape.
The last man, realizing that things were very much amiss, fled back to the camp. Or at least tried to do so. The wolves took it as a sign to strike and were upon him before he'd gone two steps. And so as I crouched over one man, supping on his blood with even greater relish than before, my pets tore the other to pieces, making their own evening's banquet. His shrieks of terror and agony provided suitable music for our gathering.
As a rule, I do not encourage the wolves to feed on humans, lest they become too fond of an easy hunt and abandon their natural prey of deer, but on this occasion, I judged an exception might be allowed, since it would bring about the desired effect of putting the fear of all the hells into the hearts of the rest of the bandits.
Hell. Now there was an idea.
Leaving the wolves to their meal, I returned to the edge of the camp to observe the progress of things. Nine or so men had emerged from the cave, wide-eyed and quivering as they faced the part of the woods where their companion's wrenching screams (too quickly over, alas) had sheered through the darkness. All had armed themselves. Most had swords, but a few had arrows nocked and ready in their longbows. Despite their fear, they looked as hard and as experienced as any soldier that ever had served with me in days long past. Even so, I could have charged into their midst and taken on the lot with no great inconvenience or danger to myself.
But that felt wrong, somehow. An antic humor had seized me; perhaps it was inspired by the reviving flush of fresh blood, but I was of a mind to tailor their punishment to suit their crimes.
Though wolves frequently howl to work themselves up for a hunt, I was able to persuade them to break with habit and set up a truly hair-raising clamor for the entertainment of these spoilers. As the pack was a large one, the row was not only petrifying, but nearly ear-shattering because of their proximity.
The men did not remain petrified for long, though, and almost as one retreated into the shelter of their cave. The opening was rather narrow; it was most amusing to watch as they all fought to jostle through at the same time. Once within, two of them held nervous watch, peeping out from the cave mouth like frightened birds in a nest awaiting the snake's unstoppable approach.
Neither noticed my sm
all winged shape flitting across the abandoned camp to lightly land on the rough stone arch of the entrance, well over their heads. Using tiny claws to grasp equally tiny irregularities in the rock, I clung tightly to its face and listened and observed.
The chamber where they sheltered was fairly large, and I sensed another deeper in. Relinquishing my hold, I few over the men to reach these areas, guided by the subtle differences of sound echoing back to my extremely sensitive ears. Past the first room, I made a quick circuit of the second before lighting on the dusty floor to become myself again.
This second room was just as large, and with a little quiet — so very quiet — exploration, I discovered a crevice leading even farther into the earth to others. This was of interest to me, since I was always glad to know about places that might offer safe refuge for the day. I'd have to make a thorough investigation of this place sometime soon.
It was a dead cave, this portion of it, anyway, since no sound of trickling water reached me, and no bats clustered along the ceiling. Bats prefer a very humid incubator for their young and for those times of the year devoted to hibernation; a disappointment, as I might have employed them to further bedevil the men. However, there had been bats roosting here in the past, the remains of their now dry droppings layered the uneven floor to a depth of several feet. Well and good. I would find excellent use for it.
Picking up a small quantity of guano and cupping it in one hand, with the other I fished out a packet of sulfur tucked away in a pocket. Combining the two into a little ball and urgently whispering the necessary words to bring forth the power was the work of a moment. The ball took on a feeble blue glow that warmed gradually to green, yellow, red, and finally to a pure and brilliant white. As the colors supplanted each other in turn, the thing grew in size until it was nearly two feet in diameter. With a final word, I gently placed this highly lethal globe on the floor and lost no time commencing the change back into the form of a bat.